Trap, Crackle, Pop
by grumkinsnark
Summary: They say not all of Finnick Odair came back from his Games five years ago. How fortunate that the Capitol loves him so much they ask him to mentor and entertain anyway.
1. Chapter 1

_Rated as such due to some expansion on Finnick's...unpleasantness with the Capitol._

 _This story was inspired by a prompt on LiveJournal from deathmallow to sabaceanbabe, who in turn let me run with it: "Finnick is the slightly cracked one but still they make him mentor because the Capitol loves him so much. This could make Annie's Games rather interesting."_

* * *

 **Trap, Crackle, Pop**

 _ **Chapter I**_

* * *

There are whispers in the Capitol about the boy with the trident, the one with golden skin and eyes green as the sea. He had begun so promisingly, all confident attitude and fingers as deft in knot-tying as they were for target practice. Odds had been three-to-one in his favor, well above Districts 1 and 2, despite the fact that they were on a five-year win streak. He allies with them, at first, until he realizes they're dead weight and he's better off on his own.

It comes down to the final six, as many kills under the boy's belt, two with his hands, the rest with his gifted trident. His odds increase to two-to-one—at least, until he finds what used to be his district partner. Nerissa _isn't_ anymore, having been stung and strangled by the same vines he'd repurposed into a net, and left in an eddy while river rapids beat her bloody. He goes to her anyway, wanting to at least free her from the rocks, only she's not quite dead yet. She shoots out a hand, clawing at his eyes, then it's over.

Not for the boy, who leaves her there and scales half the adjacent mountainside, crawling inside a partly-concealed cave hidden in the rock face. He stays there, huddled in upon himself and murmuring the girl's name, tuning out the Games entirely and causing the Gamemakers' assistants to step into the arena and haul him out once the remaining tributes have killed themselves off.

He committed his share of murder and has a body the likes of which no one in the Capitol has before seen, so they don't consider his win one of chance. They care only for his beauty and not for the way his eyes focus on nothing, the way he can't sleep beneath a sheet because it tangles him up and spits him out.

Believe you me, President Snow's publicity and television crews earn their paychecks spinning the story of Finnick Odair.

* * *

The salt-mouthed victor from District 4 isn't the one who comes up with secrets as placating payment. That idea belongs to Althea Wix, upon noting she's left her best valuables in her _other_ penthouse and besides, this piece of gossip is just too delicious not to share, _just wait until you hear, Finnick, my pet._ It's just as well: he's got a closetful of gifts from sponsors and socialites who like to tell themselves that the far-off look in Finnick's eyes is because he's dazed in pleasure, that the times he stops in the middle with a scream and runs into the shower with the spray on Scald are aberrations. Reminders that they're doing this with a victor, someone who's got a killer in there somewhere, and the danger, that's what makes it _fun_.

(Rape is a vile word, a word not used since before the Dark Days. _Persuasion_ is the way to go, now.)

* * *

He's not forced to attend the first few Reapings after his Games—the Capitol says he's caring for his sick mother, District 4 says he's in the Capitol—because he's too twitchy, might snap if he sees a girl with hair the same blue-black as Nerissa or catches sight of a child with a mouthful of _(blood)_ strawberries. He's there for the 68th Games, though, ramrod-straight and staring out at the glittering horizon, the voice of his district's escort a distant hummingbird in his ear.

Mags stands by his side, not touching but there all the same, offering at once support and silent vitriol for the charade. District 4 has plenty of other victors, who all mostly get to live their lives free of the Capitol. Who wants to hear about them, after all, when you can have the poetry of a chiseled son of Poseidon and his warrior mentor?

( _We're really sorry, Finnick. We'd help you if we could, it's just—we have families, too, you know?_ )

Finnick's boy doesn't even get all the way to the Cornucopia that year, despite Mags lending her expertise. Her tribute doesn't win that year either.

The 68th crown is awarded to a live wire named Johanna Mason with her axe still jaw-deep in Two Boy's head.

* * *

The year after District 7's comeback is the all-maces year. Beetee brings home a victor and wishes he hadn't.

* * *

Haymitch Abernathy, with hushed input from Gloss, Lyme, and Cecelia, finally takes pity on him sometime after Johanna's victory and becomes a steady vendor of supplements and aids that don't fix him but make him more…amenable. It slurs his speech a little, if he doesn't pay attention to his enunciations, and occasionally his brain becomes a net like those he's so good at weaving, making him forget bits and pieces at a time. No one ever _(cares)_ notices, though, the lapses. What they notice is that he's less on edge and therefore presentable.

Finnick is asleep when Mags barges into Haymitch's room and tells him off for drugging up what amounts to her grandson.

Haymitch lets her yell and hit and curse and when she's done, says, "That boy would've been dead in another year if I didn't."

* * *

The words of Calliope Greenwich, Four's escort, do actually penetrate his thoughts come the next summer, although they still sound as if she's speaking with a fishbowl over her head. It's as this whim occurs to him that he bites his lip to stop from laughing aloud. He's learned by now that usually things he finds amusing are not so to others, and therefore to keep those sorts of things to himself.

 _(I caught word from Mrs. Ionsworth that you laughed at her. Do I need to remind you of proper decorum again, Finnick? Has your family already gotten over that tragic boating accident of your brother-in-law's?)_

From the depths of the giant glass ball full of names emerges that of a wisp of a girl, twelve years old, just. Finnick recognizes her as his old neighbor's daughter. He'd taught her how to do her first bowline knot, and what ways to properly treat coral cuts. He crams his hands into white-knuckled fists, focusing on the pain to tether himself to the present. It works, mostly. Stefania's on the step second from the top, silent tears on her face, when Finnick's world shifts.

"I volunteer!" calls a voice somewhere in the mass of Seventeens. "I volunteer as tribute."

Finnick hears cry-whispers of gratitude from Stefania's family, which he thinks is rather ironic. Four is technically a Career district, but not everyone goes through the program, and at that, it's more structured suggestions and tips than an actual academy like in One and Two. While Fours may get more allies and sponsors than the outer districts, when it comes down to actual combat, quite often it's a dice roll. This girl, this volunteer, had given one child an extra year to live, but, statistically, just doomed herself to the slaughter.

He catches his name through his ponderings, and realizes his brain has done the sieve thing again, that a chunk of time has been lost to him. He blinks and finds that he's no longer on the stage, but in the lobby of the Justice Building.

" _Finnick_ ," Calliope prompts again, one repetition away from stomping her foot. "The train is waiting on you."

"Oh, sorry."

He allows her to hurry him out the back and up to the station, making impeccable time in spite of the six-inch spikes beneath her heels. The train zooms to speed as soon as they step inside, and the escort ushers him to a table, where both tributes sit stoically, Mags speaking to them in the kind of calming tones Finnick knows well.

"Finnick Odair," he introduces, sitting down next to Mags and doing his best to play catch up.

Mags covers efficiently. "I tell you time and time again, boy, one of these days you're going to forget your own mother if you don't pay attention." She means, _Are you all right?_ and he gives her an appropriately chastised nudge with his shoulder. "This is Marin Velasquez, and Annie Cresta, who volunteered for Stefania."

Finnick slides his eyes from Marin, sixteen and about a hundred pounds soaking wet, to Annie. She's a beauty—won't be hard to find an angle for her stylists to emphasize, with chestnut hair that falls past her breasts, lithe muscles, and eyes the color of the sea just before sunset.

"Have a death wish, do you?" he asks her, without meaning to. Mags squeezes his knee warningly under the table.

He's about to backtrack, when Annie snaps, "No, I'm ready to fight, and that little girl wasn't. But if you're not going to help, Finnick Odair, then you can just fuck off."

In that instant, Finnick's head clears of all the cobwebs it normally houses, clarity reigning. The colors on the train brighten, he can hear the sounds of the wheels squeaking along the tracks, can smell the food cart behind them. It alarms him, some, this level of sensation he hasn't felt since prior to his own Games, and he clutches onto it with all he has.

"I apologize, Annie," he says, flashing her a smile earnest in its sincerity. For a moment, her face registers surprise before falling back into its scowl. "We're going to do everything we can to bring you home."

Seconds hang in the air as she considers his response, and it's broken by the boy to her right. "Me too, though, right?" he asks.

"Of course," Mags soothes, patting Marin's hand. Finnick can feel her cautious glare, but he doesn't move his gaze from Annie. He's not sure he could even if he wanted to.

Annie nods resolutely, agrees, "Well, okay, then," and that's that.

* * *

Mags does most of the explaining on how everything will work: first, Remake Center; second, tribute parade; third, dinner in the Training Center and discussion of strategies; tomorrow, first day of training. Annie and Marin soak it all in with few questions, just resignation. They both gape out the window when the train slows in its arrival into the Capitol, entranced as they enter the glittering jewel.

Finnick doesn't, merely toys with a steak knife among the remnants of lunch. He's scarring the wood table, but neither Mags nor Calliope chide him for it. Calliope may not be the sharpest hook in the tackle box, but even she knows not to pester him beyond a certain point. She does, however, jostle his shoulder when he doesn't realize the train has stopped. He gets up, leaving the knife behind, and walks alongside Mags to work their way through the greeting crowd.

He keeps his grimaces internal at the flashbulbs that go off in his face, at the countless cries of his name, requests for pictures, proclamations of love. Judgment effuses off his tributes in waves, and he hastens to evade their eyes. As one of the Capitolites breaks from the crowd to drape on his arm, his ears begin to ring, her manicured nails morphing into Nerissa's claw-like death grip. Finnick bites his tongue until he tastes blood, praying she'll let go, knowing it wouldn't be prudent for him to strangle her like he wants.

Calliope, of all people, comes to his rescue. "Ah ah ah," she hisses at the woman, prying her talons away. "No touching. We are on a _schedule_."

He tries to catch her eye as the ringing slowly recedes, but she's smiling and waving at the spectators as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the trek passes without incident, and when they enter the Remake Center, they hand off Annie and Marin to their respective prep teams. When Annie's stylists see their project, they squeal. Finnick can't blame them—District 4's tributes tend to be average in countenance; Annie, certainly, will make their jobs significantly easier. Although she's not as sculpted as Ones and Twos, there's no denying her loveliness. Marin's not unfortunate, except for his scrawny frame.

After that, there's nothing to do but wait while the two of them get poked and gilled like a common bass. He plays a few rounds of Hearts and Blackjack with Mags, who wipes the floor with him all but once. When he was younger, she'd let him win, purposefully keeping the Queen of Spades until the end or hitting when she knew she'd go over twenty-one. Now, she's ruthless, informing him that if he doesn't lose he's not going to learn.

Hours later, the loudspeaker announces that the parade is to begin in fifteen minutes' time, so Finnick gladly abandons the round, to Mags's self-satisfied chuckle. They take the elevator down to the stables, carving a path through the group of stylists, prep teams, and tributes. There don't appear to be any surprises among the costumes, each district sticking to its specialty. Haymitch is nowhere to be seen, he notices, though he can't really blame him: as always, District 12 is caked in black dust and scraps of clothing, adorned with a bedazzled headlamp. Finnick thinks he'd probably avoid the parade, too, if that's what he had to look forward to.

Of course, he's not really in a position to judge, considering every year Four's stylists go with a nautical theme, more often than not mermaids or some kind of marine mammal. To be sure, they usually don't have on much more than District 12 does. Finnick remembers the broadcast for his own parade had been one costume malfunction away from needing censorship, given how little he wore.

It's this expectation that grinds him to a halt when the District 4 chariot comes into view. They're not mermaids this year, or dolphins. Annie is something else entirely, draped in a gown tight to her waist before cascading into bolts of fabric in a thousand shades of blue and green. Diamonds litter the hem, drifting farther apart as they move upwards until they peter out at her knees. A gold circlet lies atop her head, holding down hair that shimmers with glowing strands of light. She is the ocean, sun-rimmed and exquisite.

A sharp pinch on his side careens him out of his trance, and he looks at Mags to see a mix of amusement and caution there. He shrugs, sheepish. Marin is Annie's opposite, dark where she is light, reminiscent of moonlit nights spent in the middle of the sea with nothing around for miles.

"You guys are incredible," Finnick says, ensuring that he includes Marin as well.

Annie tugs at her dress, trying in vain to loosen it. "I feel ridiculous," she says. Her eyes spit rancor beneath the indigo and plum shadow that surrounds them.

" _You_ feel ridiculous," Marin complains, gesturing to his bare, contoured chest. " _You_ feel ridiculous?"

Annie manages a smile at that. "Tie for first."

Marin's inevitable objection is interrupted by the loudspeaker, which urges all the tributes into their chariots, announcing the parade's momentary commencement. Finnick offers Annie a hand up, which she refuses, regardless of the precarious heels strapped to her feet. Mags chortles again, and Finnick shoots her an exasperated glare.

He thinks he should extend some kind of advice on how to behave during the parade itself, but can't make his mouth work. A terse nod is all he can give, and in the next instant, their horses lurch forward behind the neon that engulfs the tributes from Three. Finnick looks away, convincing himself it's due to the afterimage of Three's intensity.

* * *

One earns the loudest cheer, no surprise there, with Four trailing them by a hair. Finnick isn't shocked, based on his own reaction to their getups, but it's still good news. If the Capitol likes their appearance, they're more apt to sponsor, and if they're more apt to sponsor, Four has better chances of making it through to the end. Well…one of them, anyway.

Twelve brings up the rear as the chariots assemble themselves in the City Circle and President Snow starts his address. Finnick steps aside, injecting himself in a conversation between Chaff and Brutus, the men's deep, resonant voices drowning out most of Snow's oily speech. To the credit of the victors from Eleven and Two, they don't ask why he'd joined them, simply integrate him into their discussion—who has it worse, Eleven's summers or Two's winters—without hesitation.

Soon, Beetee and Wiress wander over to contribute their opinions— _well, what about our high desert?_ —and are followed by Johanna dragging a bemused Blight and Seeder, and the whole thing melts into conversations on top of one another, everyone interrupting everyone, and Finnick thinks that sometimes, being a victor isn't so bad.

Enobaria's got shark teeth and a personality to match, and Finnick knows she'd take a bullet for him anyway (maybe). Cecelia sends him regular photographs of her children as they grow, to show him victors can create, too, not just destroy. He doesn't know anything more than the names of District 6's mentors, Telluria and Galvan, but the female had in separate turns painted a garden of chrysanthemums, a sky glittering with stars, a field of poppies, and a forest of trees, unbowed and unbent, on Finnick's arms to provide an anchor during his episodes; the male had shared his morphling stash after Finnick stumbled onto the wrong floor after his first client.

(People say Six is crazy. But then, plenty of people say _he's_ crazy, too. He's still here and they're still here, so what is madness, really?)

They're all in their own personal hells, here, everywhere, but they're in it together, and that's enough.

* * *

Upon receiving praise from their stylists and prep teams when the parade ends and the tributes are shooed into the Training Center, they file into the elevator and shoot up to the fourth floor surrounded by crystal. Annie and Marin immediately dart off to their quarters to change and scrub off their makeup; dinner is in the process of being served by the quartet of Avoxes in the dining room, grub a smattering of Capitol finery as always.

Finnick heads to the balcony to rid his senses of the lingering scent of horse and perfume. It's a comfortable evening, warm and without the stickiness of home. Mags follows suit, standing next to him with her arms resting on the railing. He wonders if, in fifty some-odd years, he'll still be here dolling up tributes just so they can die. How Mags hasn't pulled Haymitch's antics—disappearing, drinking, not caring _(caring too much)_ —after all this time baffles him.

So, he asks her.

She pauses for awhile, the sounds of the Capitol's nightly rush filtering up lazily. "Because sometimes I can save one," she says. "That's worth it, for me."

Not for the first time, Finnick determines Mags to be a better person than all the rest of them combined.

Words run out between the two until Calliope beckons them inside for dinner. Marin has successfully located clothes: principally, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the hilt. Most of Annie's makeup has refused removal, though judging by the vague red streaks, it wasn't for her lack of trying. Clucking, Lucinda passes her a glass bottle and swears its contents will work wonders. Annie tucks it in a pocket for later, dubious.

Finnick ladles himself some soup, a thick concoction of stock, lamb, chicken, and an assortment of vegetables. He forgoes the proffered wine in favor of a mug of hot, honey water, and drops in a wedge of lemon. The Avox bearing the wine must be new, he guesses—the others have been around long enough to know he can't stomach the drink.

 _(It's classy, Finnick! Oh, you simply_ must _try this CabernetChardonnayPinotRieslingMerlot, it's utterly divine!)_

"Now, I have to say, you two were absolutely _delightful_ out there!" Calliope trills, already halfway through her goblet of wine. "I was speaking with some potential sponsors, and they said—pay attention now—they said that you're the team to beat. You laid a good foundation today, now we just need to talk about your training and interviews…"

Finnick pulls from his jacket a small orange pill of Haymitch's and, while the others are lending at least semi-rapt attention to Calliope's monologue, he swallows it quickly, washing it down with a gulp of his water. Calliope's voice twists and gallops into song, and the edges around all of the table guests blur, smudging their faces. He smiles and tiptoes into the sea.

* * *

They all turn in around midnight, and Finnick wakes at three screaming.

Even at seventy-five years old, Mags can still run, and she bursts into his room with panic on her wizened features. She's heard his screams before, has heard countless victors', but she always comes, for this particular boy especially. It was exceptionally bad tonight, the nightmare, she can see that from a distance with only the moon lighting his room. His skin is sweat-slicked and he curls up into a ball, his hands seeking to crush his skull, unwilling to settle for anything less.

The mattress dips as Mags pulls him into her arms. He is tense as a bowstring, and she knows in a few hours he will ache from the strain. She hums a melody her grandfather taught her long ago, in the old tongue of District 4, lyrical and forbidden. In between verses she murmurs platitudes, meaningless but continual and in the same even tone. Sometime after five, he begins to relax, unfolding himself and finally looking over at her with tears staining his cheeks. She smoothes the bronze curls from his forehead.

"There you are," she says with a sad smile. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he mumbles, glancing away and unsticking his clenched jaw. "I didn't mean to."

Mags takes his hands in hers, squeezing until he meets her eyes again. "Do not apologize, sweet boy," she says harshly. "Not one of us has a single day go by when we don't see…things."

Finnick catches her allusion easily. It was said as an afterthought, but he abruptly feels dirty. He doesn't like that she knows what he's made to do, even if it's not expressly a secret among the victors, even if he's not the only one. Suddenly, the drying sweat on his skin reminds him of _there_ , and he scrambles off the bed, eking out something about needing to shower and decompress.

From the expression that opposes him, Mags doesn't believe a word, but if there's one thing at which she excels it's knowing when not to prod. She stands and crosses to him, cupping his face in her hands. "I love you, Finnick," she says. "No matter what."

He doesn't answer, and she leaves a moment later, shutting his door with a click. He exhales and retreats into his bathroom, turning on the shower with the temperature display as high as it goes. He avoids the mirror above the sink, instead glaring down at the tiled floor, until the room fills up with steam and it's safe to tear his eyes away. He strips and steps under the spray, letting the water sluice off the sweat and the shame.

* * *

Sleep no longer an option, Finnick throws on a sweatshirt and heads up to the roof, anticipating the cool breeze and twinkling wind chimes. The barest hint of light peeks out from the horizon, promising to transform the city into pastels of pink and orange within the hour. While it's nothing like watching the sun rise over the ocean, there's something breathtaking about ignoring the cityscape and waiting as the mountains paint themselves in color. Snow won't arrive for many months yet, but they're majestic even rock-capped as they are now, standing stalwart in the midst of wars and strife and political bullshit, never erring, never moving, constant.

He chooses a bench and closes his eyes, letting the chimes sprinkle over him and listening to the warbled sound of early-rising Capitol citizens. The majority of the city doesn't wake until after ten, but there are a few dozen that use the dawn as their alarm clock, going for a jog before they make themselves up into a caricature, or getting an early start on their work day.

Finnick likes to pretend they're not as bloodthirsty as their peers, likes to contrive mundane stories about their lives. One is a chef, her forte bacon and eggs over-easy accompanied by plain black coffee. Another is a banker with two graying Labradors who spends his morning laughing over the comics section of the newspaper. Yet another labors over an unfinished novel, searching for inspiration in his cramped apartment and subsisting on orange juice and half-stale saltines. The woman taking a leisurely stroll in the park is dreaming up a companion for herself, beautiful and kind and generous and well-off, ready to swoop in and save her from her current, disastrous relationship.

Intellectually, he knows none of that is true, but it's nice to think that it is. He's not sure he could bear a lifetime of his struggles without being able to believe that there are some good ones out there. The districts are replete, even One and Two have their share of morally-centered folk, and Finnick is inclined to trust that the Capitol has a handful amongst its ranks. Certainly he hasn't seen proof of that, a fact he attempts to ignore. His stylists are less irksome and ethically bankrupt than many, except that they, too, enjoy the sport of the Hunger Games and dye themselves every hue of the rainbow.

Under the illuminated guard of the former Rockies, Finnick lets the growing pain in his muscles leach away and does his best to forget his nightmare, all the blood and rushing water and squelch of trident against ligaments. After a time, he tosses it into the box that contains his worst memories. It comes undone, sometimes, and each occurrence makes it harder for him to sew himself back together, and yet he has. No matter how bad, he's still here. He supposes that has to count for something.

"Oh," reaches a soft voice from behind him.

He jolts, snapping his eyes open and clambering off the bench to face the newcomer, tensed for a fight. He carefully urges his heart rate down and his fists to unfurl when he recognizes who it is. He doesn't, however, have the energy to school himself into the veneer of smirking perfection normally required of him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was up here," Annie continues. "I can go."

Finnick appraises her. Clearly she hadn't gotten any rest either, evidenced by her long hair drawn up into a loose bun, her body disguised by formless pajamas, and her eyes red-rimmed in either sleep deprivation of tears. Maybe both.

"No, it's all right," Finnick says, "I don't mind."

She approaches him warily, for a reason Finnick can't comprehend—possibly she'd noticed his previous, reflexive willingness to brawl—and sits down on the bench he'd vacated. Taking a gamble, he joins her. She wraps her arms around herself but doesn't give any other indication of discomfort.

"It's not a bad view, is it? From up here," she offers, looking at the mountains and not the city just as he had.

He smiles, not of his own accord, and hesitantly uses her hand to point at a summit in the distance. "The Capitol calls it something different now, dedicated it to some politician, but that used to be named Mount Evans," he claims. "And over there, Pike's Peak. They don't really use them anymore, but these mountains were once a great place for skiing."

"Skiing?" Annie asks. She hasn't pulled her hand from his grasp, which he deems a positive.

"It's where you're attached to these two thin boards and slide down the snow," he explains. "More or less."

Annie looks at him skeptically. "Never heard of it," she says. "How do you know that?"

"Mags," he replies simply. "She has lots of stories from before. Panem used to be great, a long time ago."

He knows he's bordering on treason, that his voice isn't kept low enough to avoid being picked up by the microphones that border the rooftop, only right now he can't find it in him to care. He's tired. Just _done_. He drops Annie's hand back in her lap and inhales. The air is much thinner in the Capitol than anywhere else; it used to bother him, make him dizzy, but he's since taken a liking to it. It resets his head to zero.

"My gran had a bunch of stories, too," Annie says. "Mother hated it when she would tell them, because she thought it was dangerous, but I always loved it. I probably won't get the chance to pass them on, though."

Finnick frowns, having for a few minutes forgotten the Games entirely. And now that she's mentioned it, he realizes that there's a better than decent chance she'll be dead in a week. He steadily controls his breathing the way Gloss had taught him, staving off the red that threatens to obscure his vision.

If Annie notices his reaction, she doesn't mention it. "Sure you will," Finnick says when he settles. He nudges her knee with his. "Trust me."

"Trust _you_ ," she laughs. Finnick decides he likes her laugh. Wishes he had more occasion to hear it. "Trust _Finnick Odair_."

He doesn't take offense, mainly because if he does, he's not sure he could handle the disdain. "I'm your mentor," he says. "You sort of have to."

"My mentor?" she says sharply. "Isn't Mags mine?"

Finnick kicks himself. Mentorship isn't always gender-based, especially in districts where they don't have both available, but usually it's preferred. "Yeah, of course," he corrects. Then, before he has a chance to stop himself, "If you want."

She's silent for so long the sun has time to throw the entire city into relief. "Marin might need more help," she says finally, quietly. "Mags is his best bet."

He can't dispute that assertion. Mags has brought home more kids than any other victor. She'd brought _him_ home. Maybe not all in one piece, but he's alive in large part due to her. He'd have withered long ago lying on a rock with poison seeping through his veins and welts covering his legs if it weren't for the medicine and suturing supplies she'd sent.

"You're not going to die, Annie," he vows, uncertain of where his determination originates. "I promise."

Annie nods. He doubts she takes his pledge to heart, she has too much realism for that, but she looks like she wants to. She opens her mouth a couple times, mulling over something to say, before blurting, "I heard screaming earlier. Was that you?"

Finnick considers fibbing to her. But he's just sworn something no mentor should ever do, and lying would defeat the purpose. "Yeah. Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't," she assures. Then— "Is that what I have to look forward to, if I win? Nightmares?"

He doesn't say, _That, and more_ , because if it's the last thing he does, he's going to spare her his own fate. "Yes."

"Okay," she murmurs.

She's the one to grab his hand this time. He closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Trap, Crackle, Pop**

 _ **Chapter II**_

* * *

The four of them reconvene a more reasonable hour in the dining room of their floor, ladened with a truly impressive array of food and drink. For all the years he's spent in the Capitol, he never ceases to be amazed by its excess. Their breakfast alone could feed an entire block of District 4 for a week. He picks at his share, finishing only two-thirds of his lamb stew and half a roll each of Four's and Nine's bread. He's never much cared for the tastelessness of the Capitol's.

Mags surveys him through the whole thing, scrutinizing, which he supposes might contribute to his lack of appetite. Both Annie and Marin finish their plates and go for seconds, a strategy Finnick approves of, given that food never lasts long in the arena, assuming you get any at all. He, on the other hand, wants for nothing, or so Snow keeps telling him. The Capitol prides itself on representing all the districts in food, only Finnick has yet to see any legitimate Four dishes besides the seaweed bread.

"…is your first day of training," Mags is informing the two tributes. "You'll have three of them, so be sure to get a taste of everything. You'll want to show off your strengths a little to the other tributes, show them you're a contender, but under no circumstances are you to spend all of your time at stations you already know well. Save that for the Gamemakers. Marin, what are your talents?"

Marin gulps down the large bite of pancake he'd just taken. "I dunno," he mumbles. "I mean, my dad says I'm the best in my neighborhood at gigging."

"Okay, good," she says. "There's usually spears at the Cornucopia, and sometimes tridents. Aim for those if you can. In training, emphasize edible plants and close combat weapons."

Taking his cue from Mags, Finnick asks, "What about you, Annie?"

"Knives," she supplies easily. Marin goggles at her. Finnick hasn't found the need to broach the topic, but he hazards a guess that Marin hadn't spent much time in the program, if at all. "What? My gran wanted me to be prepared. In case…"

"There will be plenty of those," Mags says. "Try some snares or camouflage. Archery might be good for you to practice as well."

Finnick sips his coffee, black with a side of cream, and adds, "You'll also want to consider alliances. Obviously the traditional one is between One, Two, and Four, so that's gonna be your best choice."

"What if we don't want to ally with them?" Marin argues.

"Ultimately it's up to you," Finnick says slowly. "Just keep in mind that One and Two will be hoarding what's in Cornucopia, and whatever you don't get right off the jump, you'll have to fight for. And, Marin, I've seen the other Career tributes. Pound-for-pound, you're no match for them."

Marin flushes, ducking his head. He appeals Mags to see if she'd offer an alternative, but she shakes her head. "Finnick's right," she says. Then, softer, she adds, "But you two are _smarter_. Use that to your advantage. The arena is not all about brute force."

The rest of breakfast is concluded in relative quietude. An orange- and white-themed Calliope struts in with twenty minutes to spare, accompanied by the stylists, Lucinda and Quixote. In Finnick's opinion, she resembles a clownfish, not only in appearance but behavior: she, too, swims among danger and doesn't get stung. Not like Finnick, anyhow. No, he's the unsuspecting butterflyfish paralyzed in the barbs of the anemone. Brightly-colored, quick, and not quick enough.

The stylists present Annie and Marin with their Training Center uniforms: form-fitting and breathable, violet for Annie and navy for Marin, each with a block-lettered "4" pinned to the back. They change expeditiously, and disappear with Calliope to the elevator bay. Finnick remembers well where it goes: down six floors, past the lobby, past the stables, shuddering to a stop in the gymnasium. The gym will be drab and gray, nothing special, but it also never changes. And in a city run on what fashion is most up to date, it's kind of nice. There are no surprises down there, just more of the same.

Finnick waits until the elevator car is out of sight, then walks over to the couch, settling on its cushions. Mags picks the lounge chair opposite him, and the suspicion radiates off her in tidal waves.

"What?" he asks after about a minute of this.

"Be careful with that girl, Finnick," Mags warns. At this, he twitches a little, alarmed at her insinuation.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he retorts, taking umbrage despite the fact that this is _Mags_ , who has never had anything but his greatest interests in mind. "I'm just mentoring her, that's all."

Mags raises an eyebrow. "You're mentoring her, are you? Was I there for that discussion?"

"I don't know what you want from me, Mags," Finnick sighs. "I'm doing as well as I can here. I picked Annie because she's easier. You know it, too. Marin isn't going to win this thing. At least not with me behind the curtain. I've got a better shot with the girl."

It feels wrong to diminish Annie as no more than a playing card, but it's the most logical explanation he can give. Mags's expression is unreadable, providing Finnick with no indication as to whether she trusts his response or not. Personally, he doesn't fully understand her hesitance. It's not like he's _falling_ for her or anything so trite. Anything else notwithstanding, he wouldn't be able to. Not with Snow breathing down his neck, and not with his bed shared by a different suitor every week. On top of all that, although she's just two years younger than he, there's a certain power imbalance between a mentor and tribute, and Finnick's not interested in exploiting that.

"If that's all there is," Mags says finally. "I'll take Marin, see what I can do with him."

Finnick uses the day to plan, brainstorming ideas for Annie's interview, for various outcomes of her training score—what to do if it's low, what to do if it's high. Some degree of guilt plagues him that he's essentially abandoning Marin entirely, which is pointless, considering the kid has Mags. He also considers the possibility that, like Johanna a year ago, maybe Marin has more of a fighting chance than he appears at first blush. Probably not, but stranger things have happened.

Training wraps up a few hours before dark, and Annie and Marin step off the elevator, displaying no immediate indication of how the day went. The Avoxes quickly prepare the table for dinner, and Finnick takes to asking the obvious.

"How did it go?"

Marin shrugs. "One and Two look solid again this year," he reports. "The boy from Five is pretty big and threw one of the hundred-pound weights like it was nothing. Annie said the girl from Ten aced all the survival stations."

"There are usually a few outliers you'll need to watch out for," Finnick says. "If you play your hand right, though, they shouldn't be a serious threat."

The elevator dings on their floor, within it a Capitol runner. Finnick largely disregards the whole thing, expecting the messenger to bring a redundant reminder. He also couldn't be more wrong. As Finnick is about to take a bite of the chicken on his plate, the Avox wordlessly approaches him and places a white envelope on the table. Even without noticing the symbol of Panem embossed on the front and Snow's personal wax seal holding it closed, Finnick knows precisely what it is.

His fork clatters on the plate as he stares at the unopened letter, hoping it might self-destruct before he has to read it. He vaguely hears Annie ask what it is, but he doesn't answer. _Can't_ answer. Doing his best to prevent his hands from shaking, he breaks the wax and skims the swirling script handwritten there.

 _Finnick,_

 _Mr. Hadrien Gris, one of our Gamemakers this year, was duly impressed with your tributes during today's session, particularly the girl, Miss Annie Cresta. He would like to speak with you in person at his home, in three-quarter-hour's time. Do be punctual._

 _The Capitol thanks you for your services._

 _Yours,_

 _President Coriolanus Snow_

Finnick crumples the note in his fist and throws it against the far wall with a strangled growl of frustration. Too strung to care about the twin expressions of alarm on Annie and Marin's faces, he pushes away from the table and strides to his room, slamming the door behind him. His breath comes in short bursts as he paces the floor, incensed and doing his damnedest not to unravel. This is not nearly his first client, but Finnick had been naive enough to believe that Snow wouldn't force him into appointments while he's already being made to mentor.

Of course, in this case, he wouldn't be whoring senselessly. He'd be doing it to earn favors for Annie in the arena, potentially Marin as well. And isn't that exactly what mentors are supposed to do? Help their tributes? Even a tiny bit of pull is better than none. Finnick clings to this frail idea like a lifeline. He's got no intricate designs painted on his arms this time, nothing else to keep him grounded but this one notion. He hopes it'll be enough.

He crosses the room to a small, padlocked bureau and opens the top drawer. Without much caring what he grabs, he drops his shoes and pants to the floor and steps into a pair of skin-tight jeans, matching it with a set of boots. Losing his shirt, he shrugs on a sheer, poor excuse of a top. He reluctantly forgoes a jacket, under no illusions that it'd be on him for very long anyway. His hair he leaves however it may look now, because _who the fuck cares_. Certainly not Finnick.

Steeling himself, he throws open his door and heads straight for the elevators, not bothering to check who remains at the table or what they're thinking. If it's judgment, he really doesn't want to see that, and if it's pity, well. He doesn't much want to see that either.

There's a car already waiting for him outside the Training Center, and he slides into the backseat, resting his head on the cool window. He realizes once the car drives off that in his anger and haste, he'd forgotten to pop one of Haymitch's pills, the ones that dull his senses enough to make what he has to do bearable, to make his memories of the night hazy. He has half a mind to tell the driver to turn around, but decides it's not worth it. He can deal with one night. Depending on how the arena goes, after all, he's got worse ones ahead.

* * *

Hadrien Gris, like many Gamemakers before him, lives on the topmost floor of the tallest apartment building in the Capitol. Gaudy, chrome, and reeking of money, Finnick would have expected nothing less. When he stops outside Gris's door, Finnick's lids fall closed for a moment as he tries to glue himself together enough to get through this. He's never had this particular Gamemaker before, but on the whole they've not been his worst clients. The young up-and-comer, Seneca Crane, is a different story, and Finnick's just glad it hadn't been Crane's name on the letter tonight.

Exhaling, Finnick raps on the door, schooling himself into the sham he knows so well. Sultry and ready for anything, that's the ticket. Gris has the ego to not receive him for a full three minutes, making Finnick wait for his punishment. Eventually, answer he does, and he gives Finnick an appreciable once-over before stepping aside to let him across the threshold.

"Ah, Finnick," he greets, as though they've been friends for ages. "I was hoping you'd show."

His mask already in place, the smile, too many teeth and just enough mystery, forms easily. "Anything for the Capitol," he replies.

Gris hums and gestures for Finnick to sit on the couch. He obliges, and further accepts the tumbler of bourbon handed to him. He downs it in one gulp, deciding that if he can't have the pills, he can at least be buzzed. If Gris were anyone normal, he might feel bad about burning through the liquor, which tastes at least a ten-year vintage.

(As it stands, he really doesn't feel bad at all, and tells Gris to continue pouring until his tumbler is full.)

"You should pace yourself," suggests Gris blandly. "We haven't even gotten the chance to talk yet!"

Finnick blinks at him. "Is that what I'm here for? Talking?"

Gris wouldn't be the first to pretend it's some kind of actual date between the two of them, that Finnick's here because he _wants_ to be. He supposes it has something to do with the upmost of upper echelon Capitol citizens wanting to think they're better than their peers, that they're so magnanimous that the legendary Finnick Odair visits their apartment late at night just for a chat.

Gris's appropriately-colored silver eyes study Finnick. "Well, maybe not," he admits with a low giggle. "But I _do_ so want to hear about that tribute of yours."

Finnick abandons Gris's steely gaze to drown in the amber of his glass, briefly pondering the logistics of if he decided to slit Gris's throat with the letter opener next to the decanter of cognac. It wouldn't be difficult. It would probably even be satisfying. Of course, there are also the cameras and microphones that litter every square inch of the city, so Finnick doubts his deed would be kept quiet for long. No, murder isn't the answer, here. There's too much at stake. Too many _people_ at stake.

He laughs, instead. "You know I can't reveal too much to you, Hadrien," he coos. "We both know how upstanding the Capitol is in its rules."

He tosses a wink in for good measure, and watches disinterestedly as Gris falls prey to his machinations. Finnick almost feels offended. He's not even putting in remotely his full effort tonight, and yet Gris is playing into his hands like putty. It occurs to him then that that is not the sort of thing at which he should take offense.

"You are a tease," Gris replies. "Well, as her mentor, you should know that my colleagues and I were _very_ impressed with her skills. She laid some excellent trap work today, which I would bet is not even her area of expertise!"

Finnick smacks him with another rubbery smile. "Annie, yes," he simpers, "She and Marin will represent District 4 well this year."

"And, I hope," Gris adds lasciviously, "she will represent District 4 for quite some time after that. Perhaps Marin as well, if he grows out of that unfortunate lank."

Finnick doesn't hear Gris's last sentence. Finnick hears the first and his vision pixelates. The glass in his hand shatters, cutting up his skin and inundating the gashes with alcohol. Blood and liquor stain the white carpet, of which Finnick feels none. He pictures Annie, naked on a bed of black satin, shrieking as Gris bears down upon her with a grin on his face. He pictures her scream being heard all through the country, to her district and beyond, broadcasting to the country just what happens to victors with the right genes.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, trying to get the images out of his head. Which only increases them in intensity and quantity, a veritable film reel playing out behind his lids. Gris puts a hand on Finnick's shoulder and, like an encaged tiger finally released, Finnick lashes out and sinks his fist into the Gamemaker's face. The fragile cartilage of his nose splinters with the force, and spiderweb fractures radiate into his orbital sockets. Gris howls in pain, clutching his destroyed nose and futilely attempting to staunch the flow of blood.

His brain awash with the buzzing of a thousand wasps, Finnick watches as though a third party as he holds the remnants of his tumbler to Gris's neck. "That won't happen," he snarls, voice guttural and detached. Outsider-Finnick tells his other self to stop, that this will just make things exponentially worse. Other-Finnick doesn't listen. "Mark my words, _you will not touch her_."

Gris whimpers, tears and snot joining blood, but he manages to nod blearily.

Outsider-Finnick slumps against a wall, dreading the fallout.

Other-Finnick smashes the rest of the glass into Gris's head and storms out of the apartment. His thumb jams the elevator button, leaving a wide smear of crimson. His right hand is a shredded mess, torn flesh accompanied by skinned, split knuckles. He catches a glimpse of himself in the burnished walls of the elevator, and doesn't recognize the visage there. His pupils are blown such that only a thin ring of green shows, and his golden skin is flecked with blood, Gris's or his own, he has no clue.

Outsider-Finnick has the presence of mind to pull out his cell phone and dial the number of one of the few victors he knows who will neither judge nor make a scene.

* * *

Other-Finnick is surprised to see Brutus waiting for him when he gets off the elevator, the man hulking in on himself as he stands in the balmy night air clad simply in a black tee-shirt and dark jeans. He takes one look at Panem's youngest-ever victor and sighs. Other-Finnick readies for a face-off, identifying Brutus as nothing more than a combatant; surmising this, Brutus promptly hefts Finnick over his shoulder in one fluid move. He pays no attention to Finnick's repeated, vicious attempts to get free—Brutus wears his name aptly—and similarly brushes off the appalled outbursts of the Capitol citizens they pass on the street.

Fortunately, it's not far back to the Training Center, brisk as Brutus's pace is. At this hour, no one is milling about the complex, but Brutus takes the stairs anyway, stomping up two flights to his district's designated floor. Enobaria and Lyme pause from a game of chess when he enters, immediately assessing the spectacle in solemnity.

(Strictly speaking, it's not Enobaria's turn to mentor, but Two's tributes aren't quite the shoo-ins as they've been in years past. Enobaria has always appealed to a certain niche market in the Capitol: wealthy, kinky, and happy to do a services exchange.)

Enobaria hastens to retrieve a coil of rope from the supply closet as Brutus drops Finnick into one of the dining chairs, and tightly, efficiently, binds his wrists, ankles, and chest. It's not the first time she's done this.

Lyme crouches down in front of Finnick, heedful not to touch him. "Finnick," she says softly. "Finnick, you're safe, okay? Brutus got you. You're with friends now."

Finnick's eyes remain glassy and laser-focused on something miles away from the three victors in his vicinity, and his skin chafes an angry red where he struggles against the ropes. It's fruitless on his part, of course: while nobody can claim to best him in knots, Enobaria's are plenty good enough to hold him indefinitely.

"Kid," Brutus says, his muscles spasming in the desire to _do something_. "Whatever happened, we can deal with it, all right? You'll be okay."

"Not okay," Finnick grunts. " _It's not okay_."

Pursing her lips, Lyme turns to Enobaria. She gives no request aloud, and yet it's implicitly understood. Enobaria treads to the closet again and pulls out the medical kit, drawing sedative into a syringe. Beyond the point of gentleness, she jams the needle into Finnick's arm and depresses the plunger. In a matter of seconds, his body goes limp.

Brutus makes quick work of undoing Finnick's binds, hauls him out of the chair, and lays him down on the bed in Brutus's quarters. Lyme and Enobaria double-team the medical kit, Enobaria taking Finnick's newly-inflicted rope burns, while Lyme systematically douses his hand in antiseptic then slathers it in ointment. The wounds aren't deep enough to require stitches, so she simply wraps everything in gauze. The Remake Center would be able to render it invisible, but Lyme knows how useful anchors are to Finnick. Physical pain is one of the strongest.

"I haven't seen him this bad in a long time," Brutus observes, placing the rope back into the closet. "Wonder what set him off."

Enobaria scoffs and replies darkly, "I can take a guess."

"Well, somewhere, he knew he needed help. That's something at least," says Lyme. Troubled, she continues, "I don't know how much longer this can go on, not with him so edgy."

"I thought Abernathy was dealing," Brutus says.

Lyme stares at him in disbelief. "Have those ever worked on _you_ , Brutus?" she asks rhetorically. "They're a distraction, that's all."

District 2 falls collectively silent, monitoring the steady rise and fall of Finnick's chest and individually remarking on how young he looks in sleep, like the nineteen-year-old he actually is and not the seasoned, womanizing adult the rest of Panem seems to believe. Lyme covers him with a knitted throw while Brutus volunteers to venture upstairs and relay the evening to Mags.

Enobaria grinds her fangs together until her mouth fills with metal.

* * *

When Finnick wakes, it's to sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window and a full-body ache he can't instantly find a cause for. He heavily contemplates falling back asleep again to put off dealing with the discomfort until later, but now that he's up, his thoughts begin working overtime. Blearily he opens his eyes and sits up in bed, patently ignoring the pulsing behind his eyes.

It takes a minute to register that this is decidedly _not_ his room. The walls are shale gray, not the blue-green like they are on the fourth floor, the furniture is in the wrong places, and there's a mirror on the back of the door. He wracks his memory to figure out how he got here, wherever _here_ is, but comes up blank. He remembers receiving the letter from Snow, and then it's all just a blur. He's clothed, at least, an oversized sweatshirt covering his torso and the same jeans he'd left in yesterday.

He catches sight of his right hand, then, tightly encased in pristine gauze and feeling twice as large as it should be. He cautiously unwraps the bandage, letting the strip of cloth pool on the bed. He also immediately wishes he _hadn't_ done that. Dozens of cuts, some deep some superficial, litter his skin, and his knuckles are a bright shade of blue-purple. Experimentally, he starts to flex his hand, which doesn't get him very far. Definitely cracked, then. Whoever he'd hit, he hopes the punch was good enough to merit that person's inevitable trip to the Remake Center.

Groaning, Finnick rolls off the bed and, not at all wanting to see how terrible he looks like right now, opens the door and steps out into the common area. Above the elevator is a massive, stylized "2," which at least tells him _where_ he is. Someone clears their throat to his left, and he turns to see Brutus, Lyme, and Enobaria observing him from the dining table. They don't seem surprised that he's there, yet there's also a significant degree of apprehension.

Biting the bullet, Finnick walks over and rests his arms on the back of one of the chairs. "Um…good morning."

"'Good morning'? Try good one-thirty," Enobaria comments, sipping from some neon-green drink.

"One-thirty?" Finnick asks, beginning to panic. "Fuck, I need to _go_."

Brutus leans over to gently grab Finnick's arm. "Settle down, trigger. Mags is already handling everything," he says. "Besides, you look like shit. Not even Twelve would want you as a mentor."

Finnick thinks that's a rather low blow, given who Twelve's current mentor is, but without his memory he also can't dispute it. "Okay, well, can someone tell me why I'm here and dressed in Brutus's sweatshirt?"

Enobaria glances at Lyme, who dutifully rises to the occasion. "We only know the end," she says. "You called Brutus late last night to pick you up. You were…pretty out of it. We had to tie you up, hence the rope burns."

Finnick glances at his wrists, both ringed in an angry shade of eggplant. He's uneasy at even the thought of it: he doesn't much like being restrained, no matter the circumstances. "I don't understand," he says. "Who the hell—?"

"Hadrien Gris," Enobaria answers. "I've had him before, he's pretty tame. I don't know what he said to you, but…"

Any attempt to access his memories of the last fourteen hours, Finnick finds, just sends an icepick through his temples. There are flashes of colors, bytes of sound, vague sensations, but nothing concrete. Presumably, he should be more concerned about having a chunk of time missing, only he's pretty used to it by now. Except…

"Hang on, _Gamemaker_ Hadrien Gris?" he asks. "Shit."

"Finnick, listen," says Brutus. His voice drops, too low for any surveillance equipment around the room. "For all we know, Gris'll be too damn humiliated to mention anything. You've got appearances to maintain, and a tribute to mentor. Focus on that."

The placating isn't helping; on the contrary, it just exacerbates the whole thing. "I got my brother-in-law killed because I _laughed_ at a client," he says, matching Brutus's tone. "What's he going to do now that I—"

Enobaria slaps him clear across the face. "Stop fucking panicking, Odair," she snaps, grabbing his chin sharply. "What's done is done and there's no use whining about it. The best thing you can do for your family is give Snow a hell of a show."

Strangely, it's the sincerity in her normally hateful, dark eyes that steadily slows Finnick's heart rate. His cheek stinging, he nods. "Okay. Yeah, you're right."

"Go take a shower," Lyme says, "brush your hair, put on something respectable. Anything less than tributes having the utmost faith in their mentor is unacceptable."

At that, Finnick stands, peeling off Brutus's sweatshirt and tossing it to him. "Thanks," he says to each of them. "I mean it."

"Oh, man up," Enobaria retorts, all posturing and no malice. "Whores look after whores, right?"

Finnick flinches, missing Brutus's withering glare at her. "Hang in there, Finnick," Lyme says.

He doesn't reply. Leaving the three of them to their afternoon—and realizing belatedly that they must have shooed away not only their tributes, but all of their Capitol affiliates, because of him—he ascends the elevator to the fourth floor. Midday has Annie and Marin in the throes of their second day of training, for which Finnick is glad. He needs some time to organize what excuse he's going to give. Provided Mags hasn't already invented one.

He chuckles to himself—of _course_ she'll have already invented one.

She, too, is absent, probably with one of the other victors, so the floor is empty but for the omnipresent Avoxes. The blonde, he's pretty sure he recognizes from last year, and if he's not mistaken, there's a dollop of pity in her blue eyes. He bristles; if anyone's to be pitied, it's _her_. Pity doesn't stop the letters from coming. Pity doesn't fix his brain. Pity doesn't do _jack shit_.

Storming directly into his bathroom, he puts the shower on its coldest setting, fully aware losing his temper now won't be of use to anyone, least of all him. He sheds his dirtied clothes eagerly and steps under the spray, droplets like needles against his body. The cold does lessen his headache, though, which is progress. He stares in idle fascination as the water hits the flaps of skin on his hand, simultaneously irrigating and numbing. It's pure relief against his knuckles as well, hushing the pain.

One-handed, he lathers his hair in shampoo and conditioner, watching the colored soap swirl down the drain. Washing himself is a contortionist act but he figures it out, ungracefully. He stays in the shower a while longer, not quite ready to face reality again. A half-hour later, he sucks it up and shuts off the spray, letting the drying mat wick away all traces of water.

Wryly, he combs his hair as Lyme demanded, and a quick change of clothes later, he judges his appearance to be presentable. Inside, he's still an unmanageable mess, but Annie and Marin don't have to know that. He just has to keep it together for their sakes, and all will be fine. Granted, that strategy hasn't exactly panned out so far, but a guy can dream.

There's a note taped to the inside of his door—plain white paper this time, no sign of Snow whatsoever—requesting that he meet for lunch at a restaurant a block down the street from the Training Center. He's leery until he reaches the end, where it reads, _From Mags_. The writing is too neat to be hers, some Capitol attendant's no doubt.

He balls up the note and chucks it in the trash can in a perfect arc, grabs a coat, and heads back down the elevator. It's a nice day outside, warm with a slight breeze, the sky devoid of a single cloud. He soaks in the sunshine for a couple minutes before arriving at the restaurant—more of a café, really—and perusing the tables for Mags. She winds up tucked away in the back corner of the establishment. It's not an exceptionally popular joint, but popular enough to want to avoid much interaction.

"Hey," Finnick greets, chastened.

Mags tracks him as he slides into the booth opposite her. She sets down her cup of tea and looks at him so forlornly that, for the first time, Finnick sees her age. "Brutus told me what happened last night," she says. "You scared him."

Despite himself, Finnick snorts a laugh. " _I_ scared _Brutus_? You're kidding."

She's not. "Finnick," she sighs wearily, "we need to do something about this."

"I can't stop it sometimes, Mags, you know that," he replies. Mostly, he's got a handle on his…issues. Occasionally, drastically, they drag him under like a hidden riptide. "It's not like I _want_ to be this way. If there were a cure, I'd take it right here."

She stares at him with such intensity the restaurant fades out of his peripheral. "Haymitch's family, and Eleanor. Johanna's parents and baby brother. Woof's sister. Chaff's daughter. Cashmere's fiancé," she lists. "Seventy years of collateral. All because the Capitol was _embarrassed_ , one way or another."

"You don't think I know that?" Finnick snaps. He'd shuttered himself away for a full day when he'd found out how far Snow's net actually stretches, and he finds it no easier to hear now either. "They murdered Mara's husband, too, because of me. I know what they're capable of."

Mags shakes her head violently. "You _don't_ ," she says, rage simmering beneath the surface. "Finnick, they _won't stop_. If you don't lock this down, you're going to have no one but me to go home to. They take and take and take and take until there's nothing left but memories."

Finnick leans back, thoroughly floored by this side of his former mentor. Since he's known her, she's never spoken so brazenly, so passionately. He's not sure what to do with it all. "What is there that I haven't already tried?"

She finishes half her tea, and then continues, "You make a goal and you don't let go of it," she says. "I don't care who does what, what appointments you have, I _don't care_. Pick something that'll kill _you_ if you fail."

He doesn't have much trust in this new theory of hers, but his throbbing hand and aching muscles pester him into agreement. "Okay," he says. "Okay, I'll try."

"Annie," Mags suggests. "You've got an attachment to her, use that. You make her win, that's your goal. If you slip again, she's as good as dead."

It seems a rather callous strategy; yet, what's he got to lose? At this point, he'll try anything. And she's right, he's felt tethered to Annie since the start. He doesn't care to examine it, can't afford to, but it's worth a shot. While he's inclined to believe _someone_ would offer to at least keep an eye out for her, he can also easily see no one stepping forward when they've got their own tributes to worry about.

It's enough. "I understand."

Flipping a switch, Mags pushes a menu over to him. "You're too skinny, boy. Eat," she commands gently.

He grins. "Yes, ma'am."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Trap, Crackle, Pop**_

 _ **Chapter III**_

* * *

They beat Annie and Marin back to the fourth floor, though not by much. When the two tributes enter, both sets of eyes travel immediately to Finnick. "Mags said you had to go to the hospital," Marin says. "Are you all right?"

Well-versed in lies, Finnick doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah, my appendix burst," he claims. "Had to get it removed."

Marin accepts this without question; Annie is more reticent. "You seemed fine yesterday," she says. "What'd that note say?"

Finnick narrows his eyes at her mulish tone. "It said to ask you how your second day of training went, Miss Cresta."

For whatever else she may be, Annie isn't stupid. She knows how to pick her battles. "Fine. Same as yesterday, pretty much," she reports, and Finnick retracts his irritability. "The female from Seven shot herself in the foot with an arrow."

Finnick stifles a smile. Poor Johanna.

"Have either of you thought more about allies?" he asks, squirming a bit at the feeling of debt owed to Two.

"Who are we to break from tradition?" Marin answers with more than a tinge of bitterness. It quirks Finnick's interest—outright disdain isn't something he's seen from the boy before. Whatever personal beef he has with the other Careers, he'd have to stow it for the meantime.

"I'll let their mentors know," Finnick affirms, not particularly looking forward to finding out just how many victors are apprised of his meltdown.

Brutus has never perpetuated drama and gossip, nor Lyme; Enobaria, on the other hand, is a wild card. Five years in, and he has yet to riddle her out. On occasion she's as earnest as anyone, yet he's also seen her blatantly throw her partners under the bus. It doesn't help to know that she and Cashmere are two unlikely, thorny peas in a pod—and if Cashmere has heard, so too has everyone else.

(He doesn't dislike the blonde, but she'd also lost any kind of filter a long time ago. Lost, so Mags had told him, around the same time she came home from her bachelorette party to find her husband-to-be dead on their bed with a single white rose over his heart.)

* * *

The morning of Annie and Marin's sessions with the Gamemakers is succinct and without fanfare, since training scores really aren't a linchpin in the grand scheme of things. Plenty of tributes have made it their strategy to get a low or mediocre score in order to throw everyone off. Sponsors know this, and in any event, they'd much prefer to base their money off the parade and interviews than a score when they aren't privy to the session itself. They'd designated their skills—Annie, knives, Marin, traps—and while Finnick hasn't specifically seen evidence of their expertise, he trusts they'll give their best efforts.

Knives aren't a very novel weapon of choice, but somehow, he thinks Annie will find a way to make them riveting. While traps aren't usually a high-ticket item, Marin had claimed the trainer told him he was the most adept tribute in years, and the Gamemakers do enjoy peripheral skills now and then. And, if Marin is as good at snares as he says, that would be an enormous help in the arena. Cornucopia supplies don't last forever.

After the two head down to the gym, he and Mags split up to talk to the other Career districts about an alliance. It's really more of a formality, given the sparsity of years where they _don't_ band together, but a necessity nonetheless. There'd be nothing worse than a miscommunication wherein they start killing each other before they have to.

There'd been some debate over whether they should include any of the outliers in their arrangement, but while there are some competitors—the big kid from Ten being the primary one—they opt to keep the alliance to its usual three districts. Including others invariably carries with it inherent risk, and it's happened more than once where the outlier's hatred of the Careers outweighs any agreed-upon association.

Mags takes Two—Finnick's seen enough of them—while he goes down to the first floor to tackle One. Gloss and Cashmere are lounging on the couches, watching some trashy Capitol production that supposedly chronicles the "real, raw, and unedited" lives of victors.

Finnick steals an orange from the bowl on their dining room table and starts skinning it, dropping the bits of peel on the floor. "Four requests partnership," he says, bored with the whole proceeding. "Can we count on your participation?"

Gloss grunts in the affirmative, twisting to give Finnick a nod of acknowledgement; Cashmere doesn't say a word. Of pleasantry, that is. "Heard you had a great time the other night," she comments too-casually.

"Cash…" Gloss warns, shutting off the TV preemptively. "Don't."

"Enobaria's got a mouth on her," Finnick says. He been discreetly counting on her to shut up about it, but obviously he was misguided. "Well, what can I say? We can't all revel in our appointments, can we, Cashmere?"

It's unfair of him to say it, baiting her because he can. She snarls, getting up off the couch and a hair's breadth away from homicide. "Knock it off, you two," Gloss interjects. His posture is deceptively loose, feet propped up on the coffee table and arm slung over the back of the couch. "I'm not above calling Chaff in here to knock you both unconscious."

"Like he could," Cashmere says, knowing full well Chaff could—and would—do it in a trice. She backs down, though, folding her arms across her chest and pinning Finnick with a scowl.

Satisfied enough that he's not going to be thrown into the middle of a death match, Gloss asks, "Was there anything else, Finnick?"

Matching Cashmere's glare, Finnick says, "No, that's all. See you at interviews."

(A floor later, he can still hear Cashmere's grousing.)

Mags doesn't find Finnick's recap of his sojourn very humorous, her lips in a thin line. She'd never been sold herself, since she was past her prime by the time Snow invented the idea of prostituting victors. She'd confessed to him once, years ago, that she'd love nothing more than to kill anyone and everyone who'd touched her friends, her protégés, and Finnick has no doubt one day she'll do just that, given the proper venue.

It's not a revolutionary opinion, among those in the victors' circle. Finnick remembers Four's Delphine sobbing of happiness when she'd received the letter telling her she'd gotten too old for her services to be regularly needed. She'd still had to return to the Capitol now and then, but it was at a much lower frequency and she'd finally had the opportunity to settle down.

"Must you antagonize _everyone_?" she asks wearily.

"No," says Finnick, "just Cash and Enobaria. Jo, when she deserves it."

Mags raises an eyebrow as if to say, _My point exactly_. " _Try_ to play nice," she says. "If not for you, then for me."

It's a targeted blow, in Finnick's opinion, so he doesn't dignify it with a response.

Following a dinner headlined by pulled pork and mashed potatoes, they all defer to the living room to await the announcement of the Training scores. Caesar Flickerman, ebullient in his lavender wig and matching eyebrows, is accompanied by his usual cohort, Claudius Templesmith, whose white hairpiece washes out his face. They wax banally for the first fifteen minutes of the show, before finally progressing to the tributes.

One and Two, none of whom deigned to smile in their headshots, range from seven to ten; the male from Three lands a six, his female counterpart a seven. Caesar pauses a minute to remind the viewers that Finnick is once again mentoring this year, like Snow letting him _not_ mentor was actually an option. They flash a photo of him on the screen from a promotional shoot he did last fall, grinning and tanned and sultry and artificial and Finnick inspects a chip in the wall to avoid it.

Marin is up first, when they get around to continuing: an eight. Finnick ruffles his hair in congratulations—an eight is more than laudable—and the kid poorly restrains a smile. Finnick turns back to the screen to see Annie rein in a ten, tamping down the unease at her receiving such a high score. Since he's already secured an alliance with the other Careers, her ten should only serve to boost their confidence and, hopefully, attract more sponsors.

There are a few upsets further down the line, with Telluria's girl netting an eight and Chaff's boy only pulling a three. While Eleven rarely has a victor, usually the kids land in the mediocre-to-good range, thanks to the strength and agility required to farm food for an entire country. Which, he supposes, makes it all the more disheartening when they inevitably perish in the bloodbath or shortly thereafter. Hastin, the boy from Ten, simultaneously steals the show and paints a bright red target on his back when he lassos an eleven. Finnick purposefully stays silent on any kind of assessment. For all anyone knows, Ten could be a flash in the pan, nothing more. The arena will show his true colors.

"Well done," Mags compliments once the show concludes with some recap commentary, glossing over Ten's score as well. "Let's call it a night, you've got a full day of interview prep tomorrow."

* * *

Without fail, the Games wreak havoc on Finnick's sleep habits, those three or so weeks of absolute hell characterized by endless caffeine runs and nodding off against columns or the nearest victor when it all comes to a head. This evening is no different from the ones prior, with him once again finding peace as elusive as freedom. His brain keeps running through the scores he'd just witnessed, envisioning how Annie's session might have transpired.

She'd been mum on the subject beyond relaying that most of the Gamemakers seemed impressed, which didn't grant Finnick's imagination much to work with. So he invents, vacillating between her throwing each one of her knives into a different Gamemaker's head, finishing with a calm, _Thank you for your time_ , and her fluidly sinking them into a target's bullseye, at once harmless and sinister.

In either scenario, she hearkens back to a ballerina, dancing on clouds with her knives held like bouquets. When she releases them, it's an art form, from the sound of them slicing through the air to the rotations they complete to the solid _thunk_ they make as soon as they hit their intended quarry. She is in every way a siren: beautiful, rapturous, luring her prey into security before killing them with a single, well-placed blade.

The Training Center transposes into an arena, swirls of green and brown and gray and blue, no defined attributes, just broad strokes of color. Annie is an otter, slipping through carnage and bloody hands; she is a bird, flitting from one tree to the next, twittering as foe after foe trips her snares, ankles breaking and necks splintering. She is laughing and Finnick is weeping and Snow is whispering, _The Capitol already loves her, my dear boy._

* * *

There are approximately zero aspects of the Capitol that Finnick enjoys but, inanely, he does find the reliability of the clock atop the Justice Building calming. In a _(world)_ city that fucks him over relentlessly and has the attention span of a toddler, the unchanging nature of the bell tower is a welcome dissonance. Never mind what parties and galas are thrown, never mind the Hunger Games, never mind any of it, the clock is unwaveringly on time. In point of fact, he's more than once used it as a bind to the present; it rings on the hour, every hour, which means he's not in his arena, which means none of what he's seeing is real.

Practically, it suffices as his alarm. Useless this morning, as insomnia has kept him from any kind of repose, but he can trust that when he counts down from thirty-six hundred seconds, there'll be a chime resonating through to his room. When the first rays of pink-yellow creep up his walls and the clock signals six, he throws off the covers and sloughs off the scratchiness behind his eyes with a lengthy shower.

He utilizes the amenity panel this morning, alternating water pressures and soaps. He distances himself from the sickly-sweetness overused by the Capitol, flowers and bubble gum and coconut that burrow under his skin. He opts for sandalwood, and twenty minutes later, he's clean, dry, and clearheaded. The tree itself has long been eradicated, damning its scent to synthetic production, but the elite still try to abstain from wearing woodsy fragrances. They'll impose unsustainable quotas on lumber, but Snow forbid they associate themselves directly with the wilds of District 7 or 12 or anywhere that could be construed as less than affluent.

Ever-prepared, the Avoxes have a newspaper and steaming pot of coffee waiting for him, and Finnick inclines his head in appreciation. Sipping from his mug, he flops onto the couch and unfolds the paper. A habit since he was a child and still sitting on his father's lap, seldom is there anything of consequence or import in the _Capitol Post_ , but every now and then there are some palatable articles. At the very least, every once in a while he'll read about a former client of his getting arrested on some charge or another, which always brightens his day.

Mags is the second to rouse, and she joins Finnick on the couch. Wordlessly, he passes her the _Business_ section with which he'd finished, and himself moves on to _Sports_. Apparently there'd been a huge come-from-behind win, which Finnick merely skims. The Capitol's version of organized sports is so much different from any of the districts'—for one, they actually have them—and in Finnick's opinion are utterly unwatchable.

(He pointedly skips the _Society_ pages. He knows plenty about how the glitterati spend their money.)

Sunday's _Post_ is bland, even for the Capitol, and although one of the comic strips elicits a mild chuckle, on the whole Finnick finishes the paper unimpressed. Back home, there is a library a couple blocks away in which he used to love getting lost, picking out an armful of books to borrow. Once upon a time, he would spend lazy afternoons in his room, reading until his eyelids drooped and the ink blurred.

The Capitol's library is lackluster, more a pretense than an actual nexus of enlightenment. It's not hard to understand why: if its citizens were to get their hands on certain books, the right kind of books, what would there be to stop them from questioning? Without the monitored, falsified structure of the Capitol's encyclopedias and history textbooks, it would be akin to welcoming Anarchy itself through the gates. As brainwashed and moronic as the Capitol's population is, enough evidence and corroboration could very well induce niggles of doubt.

Doubt, of course, Snow's greatest fear.

Finnick doesn't risk bringing any material with him during his Capitol visits, regardless of how plain the novels may be. The way his life has gone, Snow would find something wrong with a children's picture book. Especially given how most of Finnick's family's books are antiques, it's not worth the trouble. It'd be nice, though, on occasion to have something of substance to peruse.

"Slim pickings," he says to Mags, who is approaching the end of the paper herself.

"I don't know," she says wryly, "sequins and rhinestones are the most essential parts of _my_ outfits."

"I knew you were shallow."

She smiles warmly and tweaks his nose. "Why do you think I took a shine to you, boy?"

Finnick mocks insult, collects the paper sections and gets up to hand them back to one of the Avoxes for disposal. Not knowing any of their names grates on him; aside from it being common human decency, it can get tedious having to refer to them by physical descriptors, if at all. He'd made the mistake of pestering Mags about their names when he was here as a tribute, and between the way she scolded him and the stifled expressions of terror on the Avoxes' faces, he'd been dissuaded from any future inquiries.

"Thanks," he says anyway.

Unsurprisingly, the Avox doesn't react. Finnick sighs. They're not so dissimilar, really: each silenced from their own aspirations, each a slave to the whims of the Capitol. In more ways than one, Finnick thinks it might be a blessing to not have a tongue. He'd gladly endure disfiguration if it meant he could abandon his sordid lifestyle.

Annie rises at half past eight, Marin soon after. Their mouths full of eggs and mango juice, Finnick explains how the day will progress—four hours with Calliope to instill within them the best ways to comport themselves to the citizenry, how to pander without being too insipid, the importance of the walk-on and walk-off; another four hours with their respective mentor on how to perjure themselves. Manipulation 101.

Finnick elects to not inform Annie of how bad his track record is at this component of the Games. In his own interview, neither Calliope nor Mags had had much input to give him— _smile, smile, smile, they'll love you_ —and in the two years he's had to mentor, he's never been capable of shunning flashbacks to President Snow detailing to him the real definition of a victor. Last year's tribute suffered through two hours' worth of Finnick's fumbling, and predictably proceeded to bomb his interview.

Calliope disappears with Annie and Marin into her quarters after breakfast, Mags subsequently declaring her intention to meander the rooftop garden. His offer of accompaniment, she gently declines. Left to his own devices, Finnick munches on a scone, gazing out the window at the bustle below. Mid-pastry, he's hit with the full realization that in less than forty-eight hours, it will be solely up to him to secure all of Annie's sponsors. It'll be entirely his fault if she dies from something he could have prevented.

Kai Hanalei, victor of the 57th Games and Four's last until Finnick himself, had volunteered for the unenviable task of clarifying Snow's implications to a newly-crowned, half-crazed fourteen-year-old. With Mags preoccupied piecing back together Finnick's brain, Kai had coerced the Capitol into celebrating his seventeenth birthday instead, allow him to mature for one more year. While it'd worked, it was nothing more than a stopgap, and the 68th marked the beginning of Finnick's duties of two very different natures.

The sponsorship festivities, which peak in intensity after the Final Eight are announced, don't have anything on individual client meetings, but the quantity makes them almost as brutal. Finnick isn't such a fan of crowds. Especially ones that relentlessly ask him to relive the worst three weeks of his life and then suck them off behind a curtain. Kai had been permitted to shoulder the brunt of the solicitations for the first two years, with Finnick playing accessory.

Outside of Mags, who will have her hands full gathering sponsors for Marin, no help is due to him this year, no Kai to bail him out. He has a feeling it's going to be especially shitty, accounting for the debacle with Gris that has most certainly hit the rumor mill by now. Whatever Mags and Two may have tried to reassure him, he's not so sure he's off the hook. If it were a random socialite that he'd decked, maybe, but Gamemakers have an obnoxiously prideful streak. Just because he hasn't encountered the blowback yet doesn't mean he won't.

Only Snow knows what would happen then.

* * *

" _Honestly_ , Finnick, you could at least _pretend_ to be invested in mentoring."

From his repose on the couch, Finnick opens one eye blearily. Calliope's face swims into focus two feet above him; and, more obviously, her disdain. He attempts desperately to hold onto the dream he'd been having, not terrible for once, but the images fade away as if they were never there. He groans, staunchly cognizant of Calliope's ability to get whatever she wants, no matter what.

"My turn already?" he asks, sitting up on the couch. He hadn't even registered that he'd dozed off.

Calliope scowls and trots away, he presumes to go retrieve Annie from wherever she'd left her. Finnick shakes his head a few times to dust off the cobwebs, reorganizing his thoughts and strategy. His shirt is abysmally crumpled, something his stylist would bemoan and Finnick dismisses. He's got more important things to stress over.

"I told Annie," Calliope says as she flounces back into the living area, "to wait for you in your room."

"I'll alert the media," retorts Finnick, wondering absurdly if the suite is in any way presentable for company.

She rolls her emerald-lined eyes at him and stalks away. As promised, Annie stands in the center of his room, examining the décor. "What's in there?" she asks, gesturing to his locked bureau.

 _You really don't want to know._

"Photos, for my adoring fans," he replies sarcastically. He doesn't want to get irritated with her, but at the same time, the last thing he wants is her anywhere near the secrets he hoards.

She snorts in derision. "Do you autograph them yourself?"

"Annie, stop," Finnick hisses, and this is wrong, _all wrong_ , she's not supposed to be in here, not supposed to see this, not supposed to find out, she doesn't _belong_ —

"Stop what? You haven't told me anything!" she objects viciously. She's scraping where she shouldn't, and Finnick's grip is slipping. "You're my mentor, and you keep secrets like it's your job."

" _Annie!_ " he shouts, cutting her off. It's too late, it's done.

She disappears as his mind opens up, unleashing tangible memories, sweaty bodies and sloppy kisses and rough hands and razor fingernails and spider whispers and _you're mine, Finnick_ and _you've never been with anyone before, have you? I'm glad to be the first_ — He digs his nails into the raw gashes on his palm, grasping onto the sharp pain and the warm stickiness of blood that wells there and soaks through the bandage. It drips onto the floor, stains the carpet. He clenches his fist harder, slices his nail across the wounds. He counts from one hundred in his head and at twenty-seven, the ghosts finally begin to draw back into their caskets. Annie reappears, small and brunette and real and he flattens his palm against his pants to obscure the mess.

"I'm sorry," he says in a much blunter, hollower tone than before. "I didn't mean—just—leave it alone."

Annie looks less horrified than perplexed, like she's documenting some wild animal's behavior. "Yeah, sure," she says, and purposefully steps away from the bureau. She delays, deferring to him. He could explain things to her, could spout endless apologies, _could could could_. He assumes a blank expression, a silent plea. _Stay, please, don't run away_. "I used to have nightmares about clowns," she offers, out of the blue. "You know that carnival on the boardwalk?"

"'A clown from Fisherman Brown's will turn your frown upside-down,'" Finnick quotes dryly. "Fisherman Brown's, really?"

"I was five, and I couldn't see their faces," she defends, amid the smile tugging at her lips.

He recognizes Annie's anecdote for what it is, and hates that she'd had to use it at all, that he couldn't keep himself together like a normal person and not some broken toy glued together with the wrong pieces. The Games already have him on a short fuse; he can't alienate whatever feeble trust Annie has in him, if there's any left.

He sits on the end of his bed and avoids assessing the damage he'd done to his hand. If Annie can shrug off his outburst, he can shove it aside, too. "Well, there probably won't be any clowns in the arena, so don't worry about that," he quips.

"No, just the getting-killed part."

Finnick winces, capitulating. "Yeah, just that. They don't tell us any specifics about the arena, but I can help you with the interview."

"All right," she says, "how do I impress them?"

"The good news is that Caesar Flickerman excels at portraying you in the best light," he says. He makes the executive choice not to divulge exactly how _much_ Caesar Flickerman likes his tributes. His appetite is as diverse as the colors of his wigs. "If you flub something, he can usually spin it into something good."

"So, what kind of questions should I expect?"

Much as Finnick wants to tell her anything other than the truth, it would be a disservice and disadvantage. "You'll be asked about me," he grimaces. "What advice I've given you, how much one-on-one time we've had, what I'm like. As a mentor."

"I don't understand," she says, scrunching up her face. A lock of her hair escapes from behind her ear, and he fights the bizarre compulsion to brush it back. She impatiently bats it aside. "Isn't this interview supposed to be about me?"

Finnick barks a laugh, caustic and abrasive. _If only._ "In theory," he says. "Unfortunately, not in practice."

Unprompted, Annie adopts an exaggerated, backwoods Four accent and tries her hand at an answer. "I got really lucky, Caesar. Finnick is amazing with all his personalized training," she drawls. "I don't know where I'd be without him. And he's _so_ handsome."

Finnick plays along, impersonating Caesar's inflections. "We can all attest to that, Annie," he says, consonants clipped and S's drawn out. It tastes sour in his mouth. "Can you give us any specifics? Some behind-the-scenes details?"

"Well, I really shouldn't say…" Even tongue-in-cheek, she's got an ear for manipulation tactics, for forcing the Capitol's simpering audience to hang on her every word.

"Come now, Annie," Finnick wheedles.

She looks at him through dark lashes, demure with a shade of coyness. "He's very thorough," she says. "And he's trying his best, even though he's…he's got a lot on his mind."

Her affected accent slips, for an instant. Finnick maintains character, pretending he didn't catch it and pretending his heartbeat doesn't accelerate. "You mean other than the Games?" he asks. "What other obligations could he have this time of year?"

"He hasn't said," she replies slowly, frowning, "but I don't think he enjoys them very much."

Finnick forgets the role-play entirely, searching her face for signs of her bullshitting. He's never had such trouble reading someone, and it's downright unnerving. "Perhaps he has no choice."

"Perhaps he doesn't," Annie hedges. "I know one thing, though."

"And what's that?"

Annie holds his eyes with hers, green against green. "He's not mad like everyone says. Just tired."

Finnick stares at her, frozen. She's circumvented every intention he'd had for this mock conversation. His skin prickles. "I, uh, I think you've got the hang of this," he fumbles. "We should move on."

Ignorant to the grenade with which she'd just saddled him, she asks, "What else do I need to know?"

"You'll want to steer Caesar away from me as much as you can," Finnick replies, regaining his footing. "You want the audience to pay attention to you, not me. There won't be as many opportunities to be relatable in the arena, so now's your best chance."

"Got it," she says. She alters the cadence of her voice again, though less caricatured than earlier. "Finnick was good in his Games, Caesar, but that was then. I shouldn't be ignored."

"A little less targeted," Finnick advises. Then, regaining Caesar's verve, "I wouldn't _dare_ ignore you, Miss Cresta. And that reminds me—how about that training score of yours? A ten! You're certainly not a tribute to be trifled with."

"I just went out there and showed what I'm good at," Annie asserts, lightening up on her acrimony. "I'm glad the Gamemakers approved."

"And I have no doubt the people of Panem will approve as well," Finnick simpers. He mimes checking a clock and laments, "I could talk to you for hours, my dear, but it looks like our time is up. Good luck to you."

"Thank _you_ , Caesar," she says.

Because his brain and his body abruptly disconnect, and it's not something out of the realm of possibility for Caesar, Finnick grasps Annie's hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. She doesn't pull away, but there is a challenge, a warning, flickering in her eyes. He doesn't rise to the occasion; he doesn't recognize his own voice when he speaks, low and sincere and unlike any he uses in the Capitol.

"Annie, the pleasure is all mine."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Trap, Crackle, Pop**_

 _ **Chapter IV**_

* * *

In the morning, Annie and Marin get scarcely more than a bite of toast and a swill of juice before they're whisked back into their rooms by their prep teams. Quite unconsciously, Finnick leans agains the doorjamb to Annie's suite, getting a single glimpse of the rush of activity inside before Lucinda catches his presence and swiftly shoves him outside with a sharp, " _No peeking_." To him, the dolling-up of tributes isn't so much helpful as it is reminiscent of trussing a fish for sale. Then again, tributes essentially _are_ for sale, and if whatever guise is being slathered on Annie would attract more sponsors, he'll suck up the distaste.

At that, he'd seen what they'd done for her during the parade, and that had certainly made an impression. He supposes Lucinda and her acrylics shouldn't be underestimated. After their session last night, Finnick has faith Annie will breeze through her interview, but having her be glitzy to look at certainly couldn't hurt. Potential sponsors usually care more about how well the tributes fill out evening wear than the words they speak.

His own stylist is a mauve-tinted man who never seems to run out of things to criticize about Finnick's appearance. A replacement for the one he'd had prior to his Games, Reis has, for all his other shortcomings, kept his hands to himself. (Mostly.) Which, in a city obsessed with Finnick's beauty, makes him a rare sort indeed. Finnick doesn't know the specifics behind the appointment—how Snow had allowed this one concession or how someone—he hasn't yet deduced who—had managed to find seemingly the one Capitolite who doesn't give Finnick any special dues—but he is eternally grateful.

Even if it does mean he has to put up with unparalleled snobbery.

"Ugh, you are a _mess_ ," Reis gawps, walking a circle around Finnick to broaden his scope. "You look worse than Sharice Vaughn on one of her benders."

While Finnick doesn't much like being used in the same sentence as the Capitol's most prolific adult entertainment actress, at least Reis has him coming out on the slightly more favorable end. He's worked with Sharice once before, and though she's good at her job, she's also embodied it. Johanna's prickly nature took the Capitol by storm, but when every other week has Sharice's latest exploits on tabloid covers, their crazy-celebrity threshold is high.

(Finnick should know.)

Of course, Sharice's scandals aren't anything that'll get her family killed, not like Finnick and the rest of the victors. No, the worst she's done is break up a few marriages; the heaviest blowback she's gotten was a slow spell of a few months while she dried out. Sharice Vaughn doesn't have to fear that the wrong tone of voice will earn her one fewer place setting at the dinner table without so much as a body to bury. Finnick never thought he'd grow up to be jealous of a porn star, but there you go.

"You've given me even less to work with than usual," Reis continues to lament, heaving a sigh. "Strip, shower, dry. Maybe I can make you into something presentable."

Despite himself, Finnick smiles. "You sure do know how to flatter a guy, Reis."

"When there's something to flatter, I will."

Finnick chuckles and retreats into the bathroom, doing as ordered. Without the aid of a mirror, Finnick can't exactly defend himself for certain, but he'd also be willing to bet no Capitol citizen—probably not even Reis, if it came down to it—would turn him away, "mess" or no.

He waylays the scents this time, since Reis has an affinity of spritzing him with some top-of-the-line Capitol product. Usually something with a label along the lines of "Dragon Spice" or "Black Chill." The names are secondary to the product itself, which stays on his skin for days no matter how many showers he takes.

"So what is my straitjacket tonight?" Finnick asks, reemerging into his room.

Reis has laid an outfit on the bed, all crisp lines and expert tailoring. What the ensemble is missing is a shirt. Not that Finnick expected anything more, not really. One of his most popular looks is a tux with his golden chest painfully visible beneath the suit jacket. At least it's a uniform black, none of the Capitol's bright colors and adornments in sight.

It's a pointless effort to complain, so Finnick dresses without a word, only stopping when Reis prevents him from pulling on the jacket. "One thing first," Reis states, withdrawing from his bag of tricks a canister.

"Oh, come on," Finnick groans. "Again?"

"It's _in_ this season, Finnick."

"It's _always_ in," he says, but lets Reis mist him with gold shimmer. When Reis finishes, Finnick glances down and presses a finger to his stomach, disdainful when it comes away coated in the stuff. He doesn't know what its ingredients are, only that it's even more impossible to get rid of than the body spray. "Congratulations," he snarks. "I can now be spotted from space."

"You know," Reis comments, "that sarcasm is going to get you in trouble someday."

Finnick sobers, Reis's words extinguishing any further witticisms. Though he doubts Reis has much of an idea what really goes on, he's right. Finnick's in no position to be toeing the line of mockery. His mental lapses already have him in constant hot water, the last thing he needs is someone to tell Snow he's ridiculing the populace.

"Yeah, yeah," he says wearily. "Am I done yet?"

"Almost," says Reis. He mists Finnick again with a sealant so the glitter doesn't rub off on the expensive suit lining—Snow forbid—then declares him fit for public consumption.

Finnick gladly leaves Reis behind, welcoming the fragrance-free air of the living room. Mags is waiting for him; she's been lacquered as well, albeit more tastefully. She hadn't escaped the glitter spray, but it's less visible than Finnick's. A dash of silver in her hair so it catches the light is all she'd suffered.

Graciously, she doesn't offer any input on Finnick's appearance. Probably it doesn't rank very high on the list of appalling things she's seen in her lifetime. Finnick holds out his arm, which elicits a chortle from her. She takes it, and he lets himself enjoy this moment of levity before they must participate in the pre-interview party in a yuppie lounge two blocks down the street. Technically, mentors aren't supposed to troll for sponsors there, but then, _technically_ Districts 1, 2, and 4 don't mass-produce Careers, either.

Finnick's step stutters when the building comes into view, Mags's hand tightening around his forearm. The Snakepit, as it had been coined amongst the victors long ago, isn't in the same realm as Finnick's clients, insofar as he's not required to service anyone, but it also generates a large, pulsing, chattering, groping crowd. And of _that_ , Finnick isn't a fan. All the "accidental" brushes against his ass, the way the patrons unabashedly undress him with their bizarrely-colored eyes, the sickening sight of Gloss and Cashmere and Cecelia and so many others putting on their strongest veneers.

He steels himself from the misgivings. This is all for Annie, anyway, not for anyone else. His performance here could pay for a crucial medical kit or jug of water or weapon, the difference between life and death. The difference between a winner and the kid who slowly turns rabid from starvation and hypothermia. The vision of Annie like that, mouth foaming and extremities purpled, pushes him through the front doors.

Even prepared as he is for the interior of the lounge, the brightness still makes a spike shoot through his head. He restrains a wince and instead plasters a grin to his face. The lights, he's sure, are meant to give off a shade that makes everyone's best features stand out, but between its intensity and the way it makes the glitter on his chest constantly twinkle in his peripheral, he'd just as soon have the room in pitch darkness.

He doesn't, however, have much opportunity to dwell on this, given that in scant seconds people zoom up to him, their lust in full view. They pretend it's just happenstance, them running into him here, and he laughs appropriately, as though their moves weren't precisely calculated, as though he could walk a few yards and _not_ find someone who's bought him.

Somehow, he manages to wind his way to the open bar, ordering for himself their most expensive whiskey. Mags opts for a club soda, but at least she doesn't judge him for day drinking. Finnick notices Gloss standing nearby, entrenched in what is most certainly not a scintillating conversation. Knowing he and Mags would need to split up anyway, she gives him a commiserating smile and disappears into the crowd.

"Gloss!" Finnick exclaims, sidling up to the Capitol's third-most sought-after victor. His sister holds the silver medal, although they're often sold as a set, so Finnick supposes they should probably share a rank. "Fancy meeting you here, eh?"

Having already assessed Gloss's current company, who are of the anything-goes variety, Finnick pecks him on the cheek. "Yeah, imagine that," Gloss replies, his tone dually sarcastic for Finnick's ears and genuine for the Capitol's. "I think you know these three?"

He exchanges pleasantries with the two women and the man, who paw at him, seemingly unable to believe their luck that they're in the presence of such beauty. Their touches, slick from oils and perfumes, have his body turning rigid from the effort of not shoving them off him. Inconspicuously, Gloss digs the heel of his shoe into Finnick's foot, simultaneously a warning and an anchor.

He singles out one of the women, who has a shockingly pink wig and appears young enough to be relatively new to the sponsorship scene. "I wouldn't dream of poaching you from Gloss here," Finnick says conspiratorially, "but have you seen _my_ tribute this year?"

Gloss puts on an air of indignity. "That's exactly what you're doing, Odair."

" _Boys_ , boys," the woman giggles, blobs of color rising underneath her makeup. She pets Gloss's face, then turns back to Finnick. "I was _very_ impressed by that girl's score, but I've actually just pledged District 1!"

Finnick exaggerates his disappointment—while it would have been convenient to nail a sponsor (so to speak) right off the bat, he's not especially worried about lacking for pledges. And, depending on when and what gifts she would send to Gloss's boy, the parachute could help the Career pack as a whole, Annie included. The citizens of the outer districts may openly despise Careers, but there's no questioning the benefit of such an alliance.

"Oh!" the woman gasps, pointing out someone a few yards away. "I have a dear friend who I don't think has made her decision yet, I'm sure she would love to meet you."

 _I'm sure she would._

"You're a treasure," Finnick coos, glancing down at her cleavage to make her blush again. "Maybe next year, hmm?"

The woman doesn't say anything—doesn't trust herself to speak, probably—which Finnick counts as a blessing. Parting from Gloss, he approaches the suggested woman, whose long black hair is in stark contrast to the vermillion of her dress. She's in conversation with some other Capitolite, a conversation that instantly ceases when Finnick steps into their space.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Finnick says, sparing the man only a cursory glance—loose thread on his blazer, one scuffed shoe, obviously not a high-roller—before fixing his gaze on the woman, "but your friend over there said I should come over and talk to you. What's your name, darling?"

Not the most suave of introductions, but at least at this, Finnick doesn't have to work very hard. "Londra Kravis," she says, holding out a hand tipped with long red nails.

He takes it in both of his, a brief caress. "Pleased to meet you. May I interest you in a drink, Mrs. Kravis?"

"It's Miss, actually," Londra corrects. "For now, that is."

Finnick disguises his shudder with motioning for a server. An Avox hurries over, jotting down a refill for Finnick's whiskey and a wine spritzer for Londra. "So, _Miss_ Kravis, may I interest you in sponsoring District 4 this year?"

"Well, don't you just get right to the point?" Londra asks. There's enough lightness in her voice, however, to tell Finnick he hadn't overstepped. "Luckily for you, I like my men straightforward."

"Very lucky for me," Finnick agrees. "I should mention, then, that Annie comes well-trained with throwing knives, setting traps, and spears. We in District 4 take our _fishing_ very seriously."

 _We're Careers, Annie's a Career_ , is what his words project onto Londra, and she doesn't miss the implication. "Naturally," says Londra. "Refresh my memory—didn't you use traps yourself?"

Finnick tries not to show his gritted teeth. He'd expected this, to have his Games mentioned, yet each year he hopes otherwise. The fact that Londra is professing to not remember adds insult to injury. "I did," he says, because it's true after all. One Girl threatens to burst out of his net and spear him right back. "They're very underrated, but I think they worked to my advantage."

"You know, many circles still talk about your Games," she mentions conspiratorially. "You were a sight, carrying that trident."

Ah, there it is. The _coup de main_ that cemented his three weeks of trauma in everyone's minds. And yet, despite his eight kills, a record for Four, there had still been pundits who lamented Finnick's madness, not because of his troubles, but because it meant he could have added more lives to his tally. Supposedly, people were placing bets that Finnick Odair, the young dark horse, would surpass the all-time record of ten, held by Lyme.

And, Finnick's thought more than once, he probably would have. He'd never wanted for food or water or shelter, strong and mostly healthy where the other tributes had struggled mightily. Had he not seen Nerissa's remains, the rest of the tributes would have been no match for him. The Capitol considers it one of life's greatest tragedies. While the trident he'd gotten has him in the record books for most expensive gift, he's thankful that he'd fallen short of Lyme's feat.

"It was…helpful," Finnick says. _And now I'm paying for it._ "But we're not here to reminisce, are we, Londra?"

"Maybe just a little," she says. "I'm not sure Anna—"

"Annie."

"—right, _Annie_ —would quite be strong enough of a tribute," Londra hedges. "Her training score was very impressive, but she's just so _skinny_."

She's not, really. Maybe she's not as well-off as the richest of Four's folk, but it's not like she's a Twelve, all poking ribs and hacking cough. "Strength doesn't automatically make you a winner," Finnick argues gently. "Remember Cecelia? She never killed anyone in hand-to-hand, and she won, fair and square."

"Yes, that's true," Londra allows. Cecelia hadn't been an especially entertaining victor, since she stuck to poison traps instead of combat, but her ingenuity had prevented her from being shunned. She quirks her head and asks, "Would you bet on her, Finnick?"

"We aren't permitted to bet, Miss Kravis," Finnick reminds her.

She waves him off. "Yes, yes, I know, but if you _could_ …would you?"

Finnick considers, for her benefit. It's ostensibly a foolish thing to ask a mentor—obviously, they want their tributes to win—but then again, plenty of mentors could theoretically be accused of not trying their hardest. For good reason, though the Capitol doesn't see it that way.

"I would," Finnick answers. Carefully, he adds, "I would bet my life on her."

He doesn't mention that he thinks very little of his life, that if it weren't for the ever-present threat of Snow's finger on the proverbial big red button that would blow his family to smithereens, he probably would have ended it years ago. Betting his life, to him, is nothing more than a throwaway wager.

But Londra Kravis doesn't know that. "You make a compelling case," she simpers. "Of course, I'll have to think about it."

"Think about it," in Capitol speak, translates to, "I'll go write my pledge down immediately." The outlying districts have to work a bit harder for their sponsors; Finnick doesn't. He'd have sizable coffers even if he didn't show his face at this party. Snow's requirement that he be here is the sole reason he'd gotten out of bed.

"Absolutely, I understand," Finnick replies, running a finger along her jaw. An extra enticement for her to follow through. "You won't be disappointed, Miss Kravis."

"I should hope not."

One sponsor in the bag, Finnick leaves her to the handful of people who instantly flock into her vicinity. Finnick's fine with it. Maybe her recounting of their repartee will inspire some of the others to pledge Annie as well.

Spying some of the victors standing around a table, he beelines towards them, passing by the half-spoken sentences of people who want to stop and talk to him. He doesn't have as much stamina for this kind of thing as Cashmere and Gloss. Playing the doting, gracious fool is taxing, and in no way, shape, or form, does he want to risk an episode, not here, not now. The Capitol is fickle—if he displays weakness, there's every chance they'll project that onto Annie, sending her into the arena at a disadvantage, and forcing Finnick to log overtime hours.

He pulls up a chair beside Telluria, who stares too-intently at her drink, which fizzes and glimmers iridescent. No one else is commenting on it, as per usual; maybe a couple decades ago they would've busted her chops, but rare is a victor that doesn't turn to some kind of supplement to get them through the day. Giving Telluria shit for being a morphling would label them hypocrites.

"Nice of you to join us, Odair," Johanna remarks from across the table. "Getting cozy with the clientele?"

"Well, I want my tribute to win," he says. "Don't you?"

Johanna spits a laugh. "If that girl _wins_ , she'll be on her back in—"

Haymitch dumps his drink on her lap, effectively cutting off her crude remark. "Can it, Mason."

Johanna huffs, removing herself from the group to dry off her outfit. Unable to resist a parting shot, she says to Finnick, "You know, I do like your strategy, Odair. Making her win so Four'll have a pretty young thing who's not fucking insane. Good one."

Finnick clenches his hands into fists to prevent himself from retaliating. He has sympathy for Johanna, he does—losing her family the way she did is unimaginable. But there's only so much vitriol and below-the-belt tactics he can stomach from her. Snow, the Capitol, he can handle them. A fellow victor, someone who's _been there_ , he has very little tolerance for. Where does she get off?

(The truly sick thing is, Johanna's insinuation is something that has crossed his thoughts. Annie's beautiful, and strong, and vibrant, and of-age, and not a basket case, and maybe the Capitol would forget about him, just for a moment, just for a little while, if she got the crown.)

Aiming to keep the irritation out of his voice, to let Johanna's snipe fall to the wayside, he looks at Brandon, the mentor from Ten. "Didn't expect to see you here," he says, "what with your kid's score."

By nature soft-spoken, Brandon shrugs, swirling the straw in his glass to unsettle grenadine from the bottom. "Hastin's daddy owns a ranch," he says. Finnick has to strain to hear him. Brandon had grown up learning how to break colts; the calming susurrus in his voice had never left. "Haulin' hay bales and roundin' up five hundred head'a cattle sunup to sundown'll do that to you."

"Maybe he'll get lucky and there'll be a whole herd in the arena he can send into a stampede or something," Finnick suggests.

"He didn't do nothin' special in there," Brandon says. "Think the Gamemakers just didn't expect one of us to show 'em up. Guess your kids'll do him slow because he beat 'em."

"Don't look at me," Finnick says, holding his hands up and gesturing towards the mentors from One and Two who still mill about the crowd. "Hastin would crush Marin, and Annie's not the torturing type. Not much faith in your boy?"

Brandon doesn't look particularly upset, just resigned. "Ain't been a Ten who won since me."

He has a point. Brandon's Games were three after Haymitch's, making District 10's drought the second-longest running. Often, Tens will survive a ways into the Games, owing to most of the populace involved in some kind of cattle raising or horse rearing and all the physical benefits that come with it, but they hadn't quite scaled the hump. Although, none of Ten's kids since had been as patiently ruthless as Brandon, who'd ultimately earned his title by searing off the faces of his opponents with a type of homemade branding iron. The Capitol marketing teams had had a field day with that coincidence, Brandon's name and his method of killing a perfect match. Supposedly in the gift shops at the 53rd Hunger Games Historical Site, they sell plastic toys that light up red when pressed.

"No Ten's ever gotten an eleven before, either," Beetee points out.

Never one to avoid dumping salt in a wound, Haymitch offers his opinion. "Last time a kid got an eleven, he got himself blown up."

Brandon's nearly as muscular as Brutus, but tends to hunch in on himself to distract from his mass. His propensity to lose his temper is entirely disproportionate from the bulk. In fact, Finnick's not sure he's ever seen him get angry, at anyone. It makes for an uninteresting argument opponent, so people generally don't engage. Johanna's tried a few times, receiving only unimpressed silence for her efforts.

"It'd be a blessin'," Brandon says, quiet in case the table itself is bugged.

"You're no fun," Haymitch grouses, "and you're ruining my buzz."

"Sorry," Brandon replies, sounding just that. For kicks, Finnick wonders who would win between them in a drinking competition. While Haymitch has tolerance on his side, he's also about half Brandon's size. _That_ , Finnick would have a great time betting on.

"I'm gonna refill," Haymitch announces. "Anyone else?"

Finnick takes him up on the offer, the level of his amber liquid dangerously low. He hadn't yet had a chance to take one of Haymitch's pills yet, and he's erred before by dry swallowing and suffering the immensely bitter aftertaste. Haymitch almost gets away with just the one extra glass; the mentors from Two then break from their schmoozing and put in their respective drink requests. Haymitch scowls, but complies, easily clearing a path through the socialites. Victors have an odd sort of bartering system they've created: no one ever owes anyone anything, technically, but there's an invisible, ongoing tally that determines whose turn it is to grab coffee or clean one of them up from puddle of vomit or, in this case, who gets bar duty.

"What'd we miss, boys?" Lyme asks lightly, clapping both Finnick and Brandon on the back.

"Jo being Jo," Finnick says. "And Brandon complaining."

"So nothing new, then," she summarizes. "What's the deal this time, Brando?"

Beetee answers for him, perhaps anticipating some sarcastic response from Finnick—he wouldn't be wrong—or melancholic silence from Brandon—also probable. "He doesn't think Hastin's going to last."

"Oh. Well, buck up, cowboy. You're getting to be a drag." It's Lyme's succinct, matter-of-fact tone that finally coaxes a smile out of Brandon. "Now where did Abernathy get off to with my damn drink?"

* * *

By the time the victors are permitted to leave to give their tributes some last pieces of advice before being subjected to Caesar's interview, Finnick has a more than respectable pool of sponsors backing Annie. He's got a massive headache that's both helped and exacerbated by the alcohol he's consumed, and his nerves are hyper-sensitized from all the people who clambered at him. By virtue of the very composition, his chest is still lustrous in all its gold glitter.

Mags finds him by the exit, and her reassuring touch, at least, he can handle. They're delayed somewhat by the slightly less-wealthy stragglers who hadn't had the opportunity to chat him up during the revelry, by which time Finnick's smile is about at its shattering point. After a few of these, Mags speaks up, telling Finnick with a voice raised enough for the surrounding folk to hear her that she's tired and would like a quick nap before the interviews.

They reluctantly allow her this, and it's all Finnick can do to temper his pace so he doesn't look like he wants to full-out sprint. They share an elevator with Seeder—she's alone, which leads him to believe Chaff and Haymitch had already begun a party of their own. She gives him a warm smile and makes easy, if superfluous, conversation. He's always liked Seeder; though there is perpetual pain behind those storm gray eyes, he's never heard her complain. Probably she had, back in the day, and been summarily punished for it. No victor is ever safe from the Capitol's wrath.

There are cameras and microphones in the elevators, because of course there are, so Seeder merely reaches up and makes a production of dusting off his jacket, the action sending gold shimmer to the floor. "You and my grandbabies are peas in a pod," she says with a strained laugh. "Wearing nice clothes has them attracting dirt, too."

Finnick tries not to stare, to find a second meaning in her words, to recognize that she's referring to the Capitol citizens as nothing more than filth. Except Seeder never says anything she doesn't mean, never picks her words carelessly. He can't instantly come up with an equally veiled response, so he merely smiles, feigning sheepishness and pretending to be appropriately chagrined.

When they reach the fourth floor, Finnick glances back, seeing in Seeder's face a pained expression that she doesn't bother to hide. He takes a deep breath, flashes a smile at Mags, and prepares his best mask of confidence for Annie.


End file.
